Waiting
by lena1987
Summary: The Minister spends an anxious morning in Flourish & Blotts, and Hermione Granger puts her best quill forward. Kingsley/Hermione.


_This was written for the Livejournal community rarepair-shorts, for the absolutely lovely friend of mine, Toodleoo._

 _PS - I have no idea why it's apparently displaying Hermione/Severus. Maybe Severus is punishing me for deviating from his desires, hah! This is absolutely Hermione/Kingsley everyone. It should be displaying that on the character list._

* * *

 **Waiting**

His left foot is tapping incessantly on the wooden floor. _Thank Merlin for small graces,_ he thinks, as there is a rich red carpet underneath that ensures the silence won't be disturbed. Only slightly, that is, for the buzz of softly spoken conversations has been increasing ever since Kingsley took his spot in this slow-moving line an hour ago.

"I can almost see her!" a pair of young witches behind him exclaim in hushed projections of excitement. "I can't _believe_ it!"

"I know! Did you know: the theory itself is centuries old. It was ignored by an astoundingly high amount of researchers before she came across it. Rumour has it that it was wedged in between formulas for—"

 _Weather prediction and parchment preservation,_ Kingsley says to himself, barely restraining the urge to exhale with relief when the witches titter with the same revelation. He's a smart man – half of the witches and wizards in line are craning their necks to get a look at the Minister as he stands patiently, after all – but this author's newest book was enough to give him three nights of headaches. He devoured it, getting to work two hours early each morning in order to leave with enough time so as to sit and enjoy a glass of white with _her._

But of course it's not _with_ her, is it, because she's been traipsing around the country giving talks and signings and gods know what else. He doesn't begrudge her for it—he's nothing to her—but it wasn't difficult to fool his curious mind into thinking that she was there with him on those evenings, reading the book aloud to him, sharing a bottle of Australia's finest as her hair glinted gold in the firelight.

Kingsley adjusts the collar of his robes and tugs lightly on one studded earlobe. Some in the line are wearing Muggle suits. Should he have done the same? He knows her penchant for those delectable pencil skirts and matching suit jackets; even better, he considers deviously, is when she dresses in androgynously cut trousers and shirts. Hermione Granger is her own woman, and judging by the line that's stretched out of Flourish and Blotts this Wednesday morning, her outspoken pride for her heritage and culture is appreciated now more than ever.

She's given life to academia – or, he decides, she's given life to those who had considered research and old, musty libraries to be a thing of the past, a thing for old men and their waist-length beards. Not a small feat: it's taken her twelve years to get to this point. He's selfishly glad of it – persuading an eighteen year old Hermione to read to him and then fuck him into the mattress would not have gone over terribly well, surely. A thirty year old Hermione, however…

"Minister, sir?"

He's next in line. One of her aides is at his side, recording his name.

"Now," Percy Weasley declares, "Mistress Granger is obviously an important and very busy woman." Weasley must think this of himself, too, for he sniffs and eyes Kingsley with a critical, evaluating look. Two peas in a pod, Percy and Hermione, but Percy is married, thank the heavens, and Kingsley isn't threatened. "Please ensure to take no more than five minutes discussing her latest publication – if you feel you need more than the allotted time, you may speak with me afterwards to arrange something."

Kingsley blinks. _That_ is very, very new. "Arrange something?" he echoes, trying to catch a glimpse of her but failing. There's some sort of charm in place to blur the spot where she's sitting at the desk, chatting with whoever has brought a copy for her to sign. It's a good privacy charm, but not perfect; he can see a faint outline of her, leaning across the desk, waving her hands excitedly while she pontificates. The sight of her—faint, though it is—is almost enough to make him forget that Percy had just mentioned—

"What do you mean, arrange something?" he asks again, cocking his head. "You've never said that before."

"This is Mistress Granger's _third_ book," Weasley reminds him primly. "Things change."

And he's been to each and every signing, clutching the new book to his chest as he tries to avoid staring at her breasts, her hair, her waist, her everything. "What things?"

The wizard gives an exasperated huff. "Things!"

"Speak plainly, Weasley," Kingsley finds himself growling. "I'm not in the bloody mood for your airy fairy nonsense." It infuriates him when Percy only shrugs once.

"You'll have to ask her," is all that he says, and the smile on his face is too damned smug. Stepping back from the Minister slightly, Percy extends an arm in the direction of the charmed line that will offer a modicum of privacy. "Your turn, Minister."

…

She's beautiful, and he can't move an inch.

"Mistress Granger," he manages, drinking in the sight of her. She's hardly changed, apart from the hair – it's been chopped off, and what's left is a short head of curls that exposes the golden skin of her neck, the teasing dip of her collarbone…

 _Gods._ He can't think, can't even speak. Somehow he sinks into the chair, drawn to her light and unconventional beauty in the same way that he knows, instinctively, that she's glad to see him. She's wearing a black blouse with the long sleeves rolled to her elbows; he eyes her wrists, and thinks of extending two fingers to cup them around the delicate skin.

It's been two years since her last book – two years since she's holed herself up in some Unplottable cottage somewhere to write what he's currently clutching onto as if it is the only thing anchoring him to the earth. Which it is, if he's honest.

Hermione leans back in her chair, sharing a smile with him that makes him grin awkwardly. "Hello, Kingsley. It's been a long time."

"It has." He does not continue, and she fidgets with the papers on her desk.

"Shall I… That is, do you want me to sign your copy?"

"I do," he says, sliding the book across the table to her. The certainty accompanying his actions is a perfect front for his clammy palms.

"Any particular message?"

At her innocent words, he sees it instantly: the witch astride his face, his tongue at her centre, her hands playing with her breasts, flicking and rubbing and tweaking the tightened buds that oh, please, he just wants to suck on and then of course he does, because it's his daydream, and then he is inside of her and –

"No."

"All right, then."

He wants her. He wants all of her. It is too much to see her like this and know that she must not return his attraction, must not want his advances. It is always the same – he comes to her, breathless, and she signs the book, returning it with a shy grin that he'll use to make himself come for nights ahead. And then she's gone – returned to the cottage, to her studies, to her Arithmancy. To a life that he does not know, does not always understand. She's intimidating, and gods, does he love it.

Head bent over the desk, she scribbles on the inside of his book. She's writing something, a message of some sort—no doubt a few words of politeness to placate him—and he rubs his hands together.

"You look well," he blurts, glad of his skin because at least his blush isn't as noticeable as the one that washes over her.

She looks up slowly from the message, her quill forgotten. It leaves a spot of ink on the page. "Thank you. And… also, you—ah. As do you, sir."

"Sir?"

"Minister."

"No," he corrects, shaking his head. "Kingsley."

She flushes again. "Kingsley."

"Yes," he affirms. He crosses his arms and watches her return to the page.

"Oh," she breathes, drawing her wand to remove the spot.

"Leave it."

"Are you sure?" Hermione is looking at him now, her cheeks pink, her eyes bright. He's never been so sure of anything.

Forcing himself to speak, he repeats, "Leave it. I want…"— _you_ —"…it left there."

She raises her shoulders and turns away slightly. There was nothing in the gesture; and yet, there was _something_ in it.

"And are you well?" she says softly, still avoiding his gaze.

"I am. Are you?"

"Well," she says, finally meeting his gaze as she waves a small hand around the room. "Of course."

"Right. Good." He strings a few words together about the Order and former members, and about how he's glad to see her doing well, how even Tonks gave the book a good go. She laughs at that—a soft, teasing chuckle that makes his mouth dry—and he continues, rambling about whatever he can find that might keep her here, at the desk, talking with him. He even considers whether he might just sod it all the nine circles underground, and ask her if she might like to come to dinner with him. At his home. He'd cook for her, and kiss her, and then she'd be on him, her snug heat around him, and—

"Sir?"

"Kingsley." _Fuck-all, stop._ "My apologies. I was… somewhere else."

"Oh," she says, wincing in sympathy. "I bet work is busy."

"As always," he dismisses, then realises his error in not accepting the excuse for why he wasn't paying proper attention. "Actually, there's been some activity near Newcastle…" And he's off again, telling her state secrets, ignoring oaths, anything really, just to be able to _speak_ to her.

But it doesn't work, does it, because in the end she stands and he stands, and she gives him the book and he takes the book, and she lets him take her hand in farewell, and he kisses it, and…

And it is everything that he has done before. Every single time. Kingsley leaves in a hurry, wondering when he'll get a damn backbone.

…

Later in the day, he gives himself ten minutes off to drink his coffee. He's standing by the charmed office windows that show the sunset; a pretty sight. _Would be nice to share it with her._

And then he grabs the book, setting the coffee aside as he flips it over and looks at her face. It's a Muggle photo and he wishes she would just move… just show him one grin, one blush, one endearing sigh. The kind that she does when she closes her eyes just a bit, then opens them slowly; like when she'd wake in the morning, or savour a sweet. He's only seen it once, years ago at some dull function he doesn't care to remember, but it was enough. _She_ was enough. _More_ than enough.

Heart pounding, he opens the book and scans her message, not really taking it in as he's expecting what he always gets, and when he realises that it's different, he—

"Oh. _Fuck_ … Yes!"

…

 _'Kingsley,_

 _Thank you for all of your encouragement over the years. I would not have begun this journey without your grant, and… well…_

 _Here is where I say, here is where I_ _confess_ _, that I would not have even continued to put myself in the spotlight for these books if I didn't know that I'd get to meet you at one of the signings. I'd stay in my cottage, happily anonymous, and publish to my heart's content._

 _Except my heart isn't content. Not without you._

 _I can't wait any longer. Please, please, come to dinner with me. You didn't take Percy's hint, so perhaps you won't want to, but…_

 _Come to me, Kingsley. I would_ _love_ _to see you._

 _(I would like to be) Yours,_

 _Hermione Granger.'_


End file.
